


Cake

by blue_like_barnes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Smut, Steve Rogers Feels, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24362044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_like_barnes/pseuds/blue_like_barnes
Summary: Can it really be better than sex? Steve weighs in.
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61





	Cake

He walks into a kitchen dusted in your despair.

Flour coated countertops stacked with dishes. Butter, cream, swipes of sugar and cocoa powder, an open carton of eggs half filled with empty shells. 

Something tinny and electric plays on the speaker tucked beneath the cabinets, and you’re standing there, forward bent with elbows rested in the chaos, in a t-shirt he’s pretty sure belongs to him, humming words under your breath while thumbing through your phone.

He doesn’t do anything to make his presence immediately known, taking a moment to bask in the candid glimpse of you instead, but you’re spy sharp, and when you peek up at him with helpless eyes and sugar dusted cheeks, you smile this beautifully exasperated smile and sigh-

“I’m trying really fucking hard.”

And Steve smiles back. Really fucking hard.

He hadn’t planned on you. 

Had all but formally resigned the intimate yearnings in his life to past-pined bachelorhood when you first joined the team. 

An inexplicable force of unbreakable will that shot his heart into his throat and his stomach into his ass and played necromancer on sensations in him that he’d sworn were long since dead.

Ruthlessly spirited with a glittered heart, he’d lost himself in the dichotomies of you.

Sam noticed first. 

When he’d watched him spend way too long watching you, weighted in weaponry you wielded with dexterity that made his mouth dry, crouched and coaxing a feral kitten from beneath a dumpster with jerky swiped from his sack and a trill of gentle coos.

When you’d managed by some act of god and relentless pursuit to convince it to your hand, Steve had turned and grinned and inadvertently caught the smug eye of his friend, who’d shook his head and smirked, “You’ve got it bad.”

He did. He does.

Forever gutted by dry-mouthed, heart-throat, stomach-assed sensations he never asked for, but would now never trade.

“It smells good,” he offers, careful steps taken toward your hapless form. There’s flour on your legs, and he’s not sure how you managed it, but he can’t assuage the smile that strains his cheeks as your forehead dips against the cool marble countertop and you moan, “I _hate_ baking.”

Deftly, he slips into the space behind you, lights his fingers along your hips and peers over your shoulder at your phone, discerning the confectionary source of your discontent:

_**Is dessert really better than sex? This recipe might be.** _

He snorts.

“ _Hey_ ,” you protest, rising to full height and leaning into his chest. You turn your head and catch his lips in an awkward side kiss, “Shut up.”

“ _You_ shut up,” he quips back, reveling in the brows that shoot skyward, because _My Steve would never_. And no, genuinely he would never, but the safety of something so tangibly stable has gifted him with this stunning new ability to tease– and really, he cannot pass up on little, unexpected joys like that.

He plants his lips sloppily again over your own in penance, nuzzling his beard into your chin until you’re chuckling, letting boyishly curious hands wander beneath your shirt, fingers sprawling over the soft skin of your stomach.

“Looks like you’re close,” he says, peeling eyes off you to scan the counter. Cooled cake, whipped frosting, smashed bits of candy chocolate contained into little bowls. He redirects his mouth as he does, kissing your cheek, your ear, the sensitive spot just beneath it that erupts chills beneath his fingertips and, mischievously, with the quick glimmer of idea, he grins, “how can I help?”

“Finish for me?” You suggest sweetly, with a subconscious arch into him as not so noble hands wander higher. He swallows, noting the saccharine tone that’s such a clever capsule for persuasion and the realization that maybe he isn’t the only one with ideas. 

“Take me to lunch?” You simper, head tilted, teeth nipped along his jaw. Conniving hips shift back into him and Oh, Steve thinks, you are _such_ trouble. “We could go outside? Take a walk in the park? You could take me to the gym and play with me…”

He wants to laugh at such pathetically disguised proposition, but as you make it his hands slip up and over your breasts, and he can feel your nipples alert already through the soft cotton of your bra. Quite suddenly and very much despite the potential that it’s an attempt to play your way out of an undesirable task, all blood flow that fuels the rationale of his normally level head succumbs to the gravity of desire, traitorously drained like a broken levee down to the aide and favor of a much more…excitable…head.

His fingers squeeze, and what’s left of his faculties note the quick, quiet hitch in your throat as he does. The arch of your back and tilt of your head that suggest what you do want is _more_.

“Or you could just…finish,” he offers, warm against your ear as he guides one hand away from your chest and down, fingers curved along your skin and circled around your belly button before coming to rest at the band of your shorts, “with a little encouragement.” And with the flick of his tongue along the shell of your ear, he slips his hand beneath.

He loves it, the reaction that gets. The soft expelling of breath. The subtle clench of fingers you’ve braced along the counter’s edge. The way you move your head to the side, exposing your neck, groaning at the teeth and tongue he swipes along it.

“It’s important,” bolstered by your response, his fingers trace the soft silk of your panties, tap a teasing staccato over the fabric just so, “that you _finish_.”

He grins when you squirm. When you breathe a laugh that’s more like a cough and stammer out, “Yeah?” as you press against him. 

“Yeah,” but smugness is short lived. Clocked by the shift of your hips and the delicious throb to his cock as you grind against him, he delves past fabric to find you nearly ready for him already, soft moan echoed in his own throat as the slip of his finger parts your lips.

He wants you all the time. 

Desperate, wanton desire he was sure would ebb and abate into something less fervid. That fucking you in kitchens and cars and closets hidden away from swanky parties wouldn’t lose its appeal, per se, but would become less commonplace in the foundation built between you. That he never considered himself particularly motivated by sex, and drives would invariably settle, but no. With no regard to time or space or pragmatic companionship, to the core of his very being it’s indelible truth that he wants you, all the time.

“Steve,” you moan, in a timbre that makes his throat tight, steeling yourself against the counter as he explores velvet slick, “What you’re saying,” a husky, breathy whisper that only spurs him on, “seems counterintuitive to what you’re _doing._ ”

He chuckles at that, mouth hot along your half bared shoulder, “Funny,” pressed to your back, a subtle grind against your ass that hitches your breath again, “You seemed to be all for…what was it you called it? _Directed_ focus? When I was working last week.”

_Remember,_ he urges with the flick of his fingers and the shift of his body against yours. Your responding something between a gasp and laugh seems to say yes, you do. 

You remember crawling beneath his desk and taking him in your mouth, batting away hands that scrambled for you and teasing, _Your work, sweetheart_. Remember making him sweat and swear and pray your name over reports he disintegrated between clenched fists as he came, then climbing onto his lap and riding him so good after he did not give a damn about the hours it took to rewrite them. 

It was worth it, anyway.

The memory vibrates his blood, his body warring with the compulsion to bend you over and make you scream his name now, but this way…slow and teasing. Making you shiver and squirm and fight the urge to beg. He likes this way a lot. 

With the hand that isn’t busy working to take you apart, he reaches for the bowl of whipped frosting and slides it in front of you. 

“Your work, _sweetheart_ ,” he murmurs, proud of himself for that one. He presses a kiss just below your ear and drags his finger, light and lazy, in a swirl over that bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs.

“Steve-” it’s something between a warning and a plea, but he catches you at the hip as you try to turn, presses that finger against you and his mouth to your ear and-

“C’mon, sweet girl. Concentrate.”

“It’s cruel.”

“Focus.”

“I hate you.”

“ _Baby-_ ” finger slipped and poised, teasing at your entrance, “frost your cake,” then carefully pushed inside.

It’s a challenge. A teasing provocation he knows you wont turn down, as shaky hands release the counter and grab onto the bowl. Tugging the pedastaled confection beside, you haphazardly spoon out a dollop of frosting with your spatula.

He’s the monster you’ve created. Confident in the power you’ve given him. With expertise he navigates your body just the way you taught. All those quiet directives - _back and forth like that, not too fast, just there_ \- from when everything was new, and his heart beat like thunder in his chest.

It still does. Echoed memories of pleasured sighs, realizations of new ones now as he moves inside of you. In and out. Slow. Just there. 

Your breaths come ragged, edged in sex but your hands remain fixed in shaky determination- dollop then smooth, dollop then smooth- if not wildly skewed, along the border of your cake. 

“Too hard?” he teases, grinning against your neck as the spatula slips between your fingers and again you find yourself gripping the counter’s edge for purchase. In a move that pulls wind from smug sails, you push back and grind against him and snark, “You tell me.”

Ruthless, stubborn girl. 

He chases that friction, presses against your ass and chokes back his own moan and yes, he is painfully hard. Harder still when he slips another finger alongside the first, rocks the heel of his palm against you and pulls this beautiful, keening whimper from your lips that confirms all resolve of cake completion abandoned.

“Steve,” you gasp, “ _Oh_ -” and it’s a thrill through every nerve, this victorious internal jaunt that he can do it. He can drive you to the edge with the same ease you employ against him. 

Okay, maybe not the same ease, considering you’ve nearly dismantled him several times by the simple press of your clothed ass against his clothed crotch, but still…

He relishes it. That desperate grind onto his fingers, tandem movements growing wilder and less focused as slick wet slips between and he pumps into you harder, faster. Mouth sloppy against your neck as he matches the frenzied breaths from your lips.

You’re close. Incredibly hot and incredibly close and he swears he may just die from it. And then everything happens at once.

You come, hard, his name a litany as you thrust your hips and your fingers slip. They slide over marble and into the base of the pedestal, toppling it over, half iced glory slipped off and onto the counter with a bready thwack. Cracked and split open and Steve barely has enough time to throw out his arm and catch you around the chest to save your pretty mouth from meeting that exact fate.

“ _Shit_ -“ he pants into the sudden, sobered silence. The weight of your work in ruins, settling heavy as you groan.

“Fuck me,” head down, slumped in his grasp as your arms sprawl out over the marble and he’s an asshole. An awful person. The worst. 

“Sweetheart,” he hedges, “I am so sor-”

But then you’re laughing. 

Vibrating shaky resplendence in his arms as you push yourself up again and turn to face him. Frosting streaks down the hand you bring to his cheek, while the other tugs the hem of his shirt from his pants.

“Fuck me, Steve,” you repeat like he just doesn’t get it, before slipping your tongue through stunned lips. You kiss him. Hard.

And, _oh_. Not distraught, your words. But dirty. Wanton and sexy and irreverent to the ruined confection you put so much work into.

Fuck me- as you snap the button to his pants, wrapping those glorious fingers around his length.

And, well- he is happy to oblige.

Even happier to replace your cake with a beautifully decorated version from your favorite bakery that he rather boastfully pawns off as all your own at the party you both attend later that evening. A gentle tease that backfires splendidly when you smile, unflinchingly, “Oh, but Steve really helped me _finish_ ,” and he flushes so pink his cheeks burn. 

He eats the cobbled, salvaged remains of your own creation alongside you in bed, when the night is much later and you’ve both shrugged out of all uncomfortable pieces of clothing and personality. 

Chocolate and whipped buttercream and candy you’ve lovingly dubbed the counter cake and fed to him on forkfuls between laughs as you scour through Netflix and make him feel so domestic it hurts.

“It’s good,” he says, kissing frosting off the corner of your mouth, “But it’s not better.”

“Hmm,” you answer, eyes fluttering closed, and he knows like him you’re relishing it. That new memory of love made braced along the counters edge. You take a slow, steadying breath, and your mouth curves into the sweetest smile-

“It’s arguably close.”


End file.
